Son Of A Martyr
by Leigh Adams15
Summary: She was his secret.  A friendship forged outside the bonds of their Hogwarts houses, after hours in abandoned classrooms.


**Title**: Son Of A Martyr (1/1)

**Author**: Leigh Adams

**Characters**: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson

**Rating**: PG-13

**Word Count**: 807

**Summary**: _She was his secret. A friendship forged outside the bonds of their Hogwarts houses, after hours in abandoned classrooms. _

**Author's Notes**: This was written for the Harry Potter Non-Canon Ships Comment Ficathon on LJ.

* * *

Not a day has gone by that he hasn't thought about her.

She was his first, his last, and the only girl he ever loved. They came from different worlds; he was the plucky child of martyrs, his parents heroes for their actions during Voldemort's first reign of terror. She was a spoiled, selfish princess—the daughter of a Death Eater—who thought only of herself. They were so incompatible it was almost comedic.

She was his secret. A friendship forged outside the bonds of their Hogwarts houses, after hours in abandoned classrooms. She was unlike any other girl he'd ever known; she wasn't bubbly and perky like Lavender, diligent in her studies like Hermione, or flirtatious and coy like Lavender. She was haughty, demanding, and prissy, and Neville was surprised to find out that he _liked_ it.

_He'd laid an old tartan blanket down, but the cold of the stone floor still seeped through the flimsy barrier. In the chill of the classroom, the only heat source came from their bodies, pressed up against one another as hands roamed over skin and lips slid against one another. _

_Her manicured nails dug into his back when he pressed between her thighs, sinking down into her welcoming heat. Neville was unable to hold back the ragged groan that fell from his lips; he'd never known, never imagined it would feel like this- **sohotsogood**. _

_ Breathy moans filled the room as the slap of skin against skin punctuated their coupling. And all too soon, he cried out as he spilled into her perfect body, thrusting his last against her damp skin. His mind was blissfully empty, drained in a post-coitus haze—so drained that he never realized she hadn't come as well._

After the war, there were hearings; the public cried out for blood, and an overwhelming anti-pureblood demagogy swept throughout Britain. He survived the political backlash, as did others like him—purebloods who'd fought for the Order, but she wasn't so lucky. The daughter of a Death Eater—a deceased Death Eater, since her father had fallen during the Battle of Hogwarts—and known pureblooded bigot, the Wizengamot was all too happy to sentence her in her father's place.

It didn't matter to them that she'd never committed a crime, had never taken the Dark Mark. She was wealthy, pure, and had ties to the Dark Lord. It was enough to condemn her.

All throughout it, though, Neville never stopped thinking of her. The smell of her skin—_freesias_— and the softness of her hair, the touch of her lips against his. He'd never told her how much he thought about her… or what he felt _for_ her. There had never been time.

She was conceited, arrogant, and spoiled.

And he loved her.

That was what brought him to Azkaban, the daunting prison out on a rock in the middle of the North Sea. For too long, he'd sat on the sidelines and watched "justice" handed down to the deserving parties, but not once had he opened his mouth in protest. She didn't deserve to be here anymore than he deserved her. But not for naught was he a noble Gryffindor, grasping onto a fool's hope that she would forgive him.

He could hear the waves crashing into the rocks below, the wind howling outside as he followed the guard down the long, drafty corridor. The dementors were gone, but the sense of misery and despair still hung in the cold air. It was the longest walk of Neville's life, the journey from the tiny boat to her cell.

When they stopped and the guard rapped on the bars with his stick, Neville wanted to grab it and throw it out a window. She wasn't a dog to be treated as such, but he knew his words would've been wasted. The guards didn't care what he thought, even if he was a war hero and friend of The Boy Who'd Lived. But thankfully, this one had agreed to give him a bit of privacy.

As Neville knelt down on the cold stone floor, he felt a pang in his heart at the sight within the cell. She was pale, even more so than she normally was, and her normally shiny black hair was limp and dull. The grey and black Azkaban robes hung loosely on her frame, and when she moved her hands, he could see that her nails were ragged—as if she'd been biting them.

But when she looked up at him, her eyes were just as he remembered; still pale blue and full of fire. It was comforting to see it there, as if maybe, _just maybe_, the girl he loved was still there. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Hello, Pansy."


End file.
